


Subjugation

by laireshi



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M, Magic, Torture, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 02:51:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17113049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi
Summary: Sometimes it feels like a gift when Athos whispers,Scream, into his ear, and the spell forces Holland to obey.





	Subjugation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [labocat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/labocat/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this bit of Holland pain!

It’s easier when they order him.

Holland’s only way of opposing them is pretending to be hollowed out, emotionless and unfeeling. He learns to control every little reaction his body has. He stays still and silent as they cut his skin and lick his blood.

He can’t let them win, he thinks, pathetically; they’ve won years ago, so utterly and completely that Holland doesn’t really understand why he keeps trying to salvage a part of his soul.

Sometimes it feels like a gift when Athos whispers, _Scream_ , into his ear, and the spell forces Holland to obey. Of course, the next words that follow are usually, _Did I say you could stop?_ , until Holland’s voice is gone and his throat is raw and his lungs burn.

(All that power surging within him, denied outlet by the soul seal, and the _Antari_ word for killing, tasting wrong and charred like something belonging in Black London is at the tips of his tongue, never to be spoken; not even if he aims it at himself, no, Athos has taken even that possibility away from him.)

Astrid prefers a different kind of games.

“Tell me about Vortalis,” she says, her voice fake-sweet, and Holland wants to go to his knees and beg, and he can’t even manage to shake his head against the order.

“He was my king,” he says, the words true like little what he says these days is. 

Astrid scoffs. “Tell me your best memory.”

Holland’s eyes burn and he can’t refuse, the words of the day when Vor became king and Holland his knight and they were full of hope wrenched out of him.

“So naive,” she comments. “Power is the only thing that matters.” She gestures at the wine glass standing at the table, and Holland bows his head. 

He’d willingly empty his veins to save his world, but instead he cuts through his hand and lets his blood fill the glass for the woman destroying it.

( _Lets_ ; like an illusion of a choice makes anything better here.)

Athos’ hands are wrapped around Holland’s throat, but he’s not squeezing anymore. Holland fights to regulate his breathing as he’s allowed to inhale again, and Athos moves in him, fast, rough movements. It hurts, but what _doesn’t_? Holland’s used to it.

Some days, it’s the absence of pain that’s unbearable: a moment of relief only serving to make the next torture worse.

Athos reaches to his right to where he dropped a knife earlier. Holland doesn’t move a muscle. Fighting Athos, throwing him off, escaping—it’s so unattainable it’s not even a dream. 

Athos runs the blade across Holland’s throat. Not deep, just enough to let the blood flow. 

He latches onto the wound with his mouth, and he comes moments later.

Holland remains motionless.

Athos raises himself on one arm, looking down at Holland, his mouth crimson red.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, placing a bloody kiss on Holland’s lips, and Holland tastes his own blood as his hand wraps around his cock, because it’s not just his pain that’s Athos and Astrid’s, it’s his pleasure too, and everything in between.

(Nothing remains forever in the dying world of White London, and so the Danes won’t either, can’t, not even with the power stolen from Holland’s blood: that’s his only prayer.)

There are days when neither of them lays a finger on him, days where they order him to walk the earth in other worlds.

These are the worst days of all.

He sees Grey London that simply forgot magic, but its people dealt with it and forgot, alive to forge their own future, the future that White London no longer has.

He sees Red London that is prospering, vibrating, full of beautiful crafts and amazing, impossible life, the life that’s seeping out of White London.

He sees all his failures in these two worlds, and then he lies for the Danes and he kills for them, because they require his body and his soul.

(He wanted to be the Someday King; he dreamt of being the White London’s saviour; he fears he’s its destroyer: his magic in the Danes’ hands the worst weapon.)


End file.
